First Choice
by C.K.isback
Summary: Just because Beatrice Prior doesn't think she's attractive doesn't make that everyone's opinion. Oneshot, since there is way too much Four and Tris up in here.


**What better way to return from a fanfiction hiatus than with a shiny new oneshot for a shiny new fandom? Anyway, there really is not a lot of variation in this fandom, so I thought I'd give Peter, the only character I actually really enjoy, a little love and exploration. This takes during the events on page 400, going a slightly alternate route.**

Peter Blackwell sat in the backmost corridor of the Pit, hidden. His feet were tucked neatly under his body, and he had jammed himself into a corner, behind a potted plant. He melted into the shadows, eyes closed, barely breathing. For a brief moment, he appreciated the way the Dauntless dressed themselves - wearing all black, the only thing that showed in this light were the whites of his eyes.

Hiding, to Peter, was malleable term. One could say he was not_ really_ hiding. He had simply come here to disappear, to get away from the stress and deceit that was the Dauntless initiation. The hallway he was in was the entrance to the Trainer's rooms, but people rarely walked through it. He had discovered it the second day of training, and had been using it as a place to calm down and collect himself ever since.

If it hadn't been so untraveled, of course, he would be easy to find by others. Anyone who looked down the corridor for more than two seconds would be able to make him out, to spot the sheen of his hair, the occasional flash of his teeth.

_Even someone as dumb as Drew or Molly_, he thought for a brief moment, _or maybe poor, deceased Al._

A smirk crept, unbidden, onto his face. He couldn't keep it off. He had been raised Candor, after all. Why shouldn't he show his true feelings?

Voices floated down the hallway, and he raised his head, smile dropping from his face. Despite not actually hiding, he had never been discovered here before. A feeling of vulnerability rose like bile up his throat, and he desperately tried to beat it back down. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where the sounds were coming from.

They were voices. Voices coming closer.

He folded himself deeper into the crook of the wall as the rhythmic thump of shoes traveled closer. He raised his eyes, trying to see who it was. The darkness and plant obscured his vision, but he could make out two people: One big, one small. He watched them travel through a door, and it swung shut behind him. But the walls were thin in Dauntless, much like Candor. Pressing his ear against the wall, Peter could make out what they were saying easily.  
Immediately, he recognized the voices.

"Want some water?" Four said, his voice clear and identifiable. Peter leaned in further toward the wall, curious. What would a trainer be doing in his room at these hours, right before the banquet? Surely it was the most busy time for them.

He got his answer quickly.

"No thanks." The voice of Beatrice Prior was unmistakable to him.

His entire body froze, his mind picking up and whirring faster and faster. His fingers began to drum against the ground, a habit he had thought he had gotten rid of as a child. It had happened when he was younger, thinking hard, faster than normal. The times when his thoughts all blurred together.

So Tris,_ the_ Tris Prior, the perfect little initiate who could do no wrong, was in the room of none other than Four, the supposedly unbiased trainer.

Peter didn't suppress his wide, slightly manic smile. He stuck his fingers in his mouth to stop them from tapping. He had already missed the first part of their conversation with his mind in such a frenzy. He had to calm down and focus.

Tris was speaking again. "-wonder...what's in it for you. This...whatever it is."

A hot hiss of breath shot through the space between his fingers. This was too perfect. Too much. Even in his most fervid dreams he could never have imagined up this kind of blackmail.

Two birds with one neat, deadly little stone.

"What's in it for me." Four's voice had always sounded so dead to Peter, and this was no different. "You're an idiot, Tris."

_How passionate. A real Don Juan._ He suppressed an eye roll, digging his fingers deeper into his mouth.

"I'm am_ not_ an idiot" Tris said hotly, "Which is why I know that it's a little weird that, of all the girls you could have chosen, you chose me. So if you're just looking for...um, you know.._.that_..."

Peter's face twisted into a face-splitting smile, and he bit down on his knuckles, tasting blood, to stop himself from laughing. A strange mixture of pain and giddiness jolted down his spine.

"What? Sex? You know, if that was all I wanted, you probably wouldn't be the first person I would go to."

Peter let out a wet gasp for air, letting his hand drop to his stomach as he clutched it in silent laughter.

"I'm going to leave now," said Tris, and Peter couldn't blame her. He couldn't have orchestrated a more wounding conversation if he had tried.

"No Tris, I'm sorry I said that. What I _meant_ was that you aren't like that. Which I knew when I met-"

A noise came from the entryway to the hall, and Peter twisted around silently. It was the Dauntless born initiates, romping through the hallways like loud and overly rambunctious puppies. He suppressed a huff of agitation, shaking out his bloodied hand, willing them away.

Tris and Four had heard the noises also, and he heard Four take a couple heavy footsteps backward, reeling away as if he was afraid to be caught.  
"I-I should go," he muttered. "We'll talk later."

Peter heard an agitated noise coming from Tris' end of the room as the door to the room swung shut, Four running away before the initiates decided to explore his hallway.

Peter cradled his injured hand, emotions gone. He felt numb again, robotic.

He heard light footsteps, and Tris emerged from the bedroom. She had her face in her hands, sighing with a curious combination of hurt and anger.  
Peter's body stood on its own accord, turning, and then he was face to face with Beatrice Prior.

She looked completely surprised to see him there, as if he had just materialized out of thin air. She raised her hands slightly forward to shield herself. He snorted. She looked like she was trying to ward off some kind of demon.

He held his breath for a moment, and then her hands dropped back to her sides. He focused on them for a moment, then looked up at her face.  
It was empty, eyes hollow. He didn't like that.

"Hello, Stiff."

"Peter," the name fell off her lips quietly, more breath than name.

He liked to see the fear in her eyes, to know that that fear was him, inside of her, in her mind.

"You know," he drawled. "I'm not much one for kindness, but even I think your.._.friend_ was a bit harsh." He studied her face, taking in her shock and anger. He fed off of it like the parasitic monster he knew he was, but couldn't seem to make himself ashamed about it.

She froze. She was afraid. He liked it.

"How much did you hear?" she breathed, eyes wide and scared, a deer in headlights.

His hand rose up on its own accord, wanting to touch that frightened, anxious face, to feel it and probe it and make her emotions even more real to him. But she jerked before his fingers touched her cheek, and he let his hand fall back down, where it lay twitching like a restless animal at his side, blood still trickling down the tendons in his hand.

"Enough," he answered. Short. Clinical. He wouldn't let her know what he was thinking. He liked for her to play the part of the open book, while he read and savored every word that expressed itself on her face.

She flushed a deep pink, an alluring pink, but turned her face away before Peter could really appreciate it. It left him hungry for more.

"Just get out of my face. Everyone knows what you did. They know you're a sneak and a liar." She still kept her face turned away, but Peter knew that those big eyes were wide, scared because of_ him_, what_ he_ could do.

It made him feel powerful.

"So? It's better that they know. I don't care, and I'm not stupid, despite what you and your little friends might think. I wasn't exactly very subtle, was I? But I never really intended to be." He reached out to touch her again on reflex, and this time his hand landed on the soft, bare flesh of her shoulder.

Her face turned toward him, disgust with a hint of anxiety, and she shook off the hand. "Quit that."

"Quit what?"

There was a pause, and he stared into her eyes, searching. He could see hurt in them, but he wondered who it was_ really_ directed at.

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say, was it?" he asked her again, lightly, gently. He kept his hands rigid at his sides, balled into fists. He would make sure they didn't touch her again.

"You deserve every bad thing anyone's ever said about you," she spat at him, fire rising in her eyes. "And I'm assuming that's a lot."

He snorted. "Stiff's got some humor, huh? But I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about your little boyfriend."

The fire left her eyes at the word 'boyfriend', replaced with ice. "He's not my boyfriend," she muttered, inclining her head down toward the floor.

Peter smelled defeat radiating off of Beatrice Prior in waves. But he didn't want her to give up yet. What was the fun of this little game if it wasn't a challenge?

"Seems like he doesn't really want to be either," he said, looking down at her, silently coaxing her eyes to come back up to his face. "A bit harsh, to say that you wouldn't be his first choice. A guy who supposedly likes you, and yet he admits that you aren't physically appealing to him."

Her eyes snapped up to his once more, fire kindling in them. He breathed a sigh of absolute pleasure at the sight. "You heard the what he said, Peter. That's not what he meant and you know it. He just knows that I am not the kind of girl who goes _throwing_ herself at men."

Peter laughed. It was not kind. "I'm a male, Stiff. I've been in my share of relationships, despite what you may think. And not only that, but I'm from Candor. I can read anyone's tells, even if they could never read mine." He bore into her eyes hard, soaking her in. "That wasn't even a good coverup, honey. That was the sloppiest lie I've ever heard told."

She bit her lip, discomfort echoing through her features. There was a brief pause. "You're lying," she said, her voice making an attempt at being strong and resolute, but failing.

Peter shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if I was romantically attracted to a woman, she would be my first choice for sex, every time. Maybe you don't understand it, since you're the disgusting, blushing virgin type, but it's less complicated than what you think. Sex doesn't need love, and sex sure as hell doesn't need availability or propriety, like your boy told you. If that was true, you wouldn't have countless men lusting over happily married women or pre-teen girls, despite the fact that they aren't ' throwing themselves at men', as you so eloquently put it. If your little Four was really in love with you, you'd be his first choice. And even if he_ wasn't_," a laugh bubbled from his lips, "you still would be."

She looked at him, even more fired up than she had been before. He loved it. "And how would you know?"

Uncontrolled, he broke his promise to himself, his hands reaching up and snaking around her waist. He let them rest there, looking into his eyes. He couldn't read them, his own emotions overtaking him.

She did not push him away as he leaned in, so close that his lips brushed against her ear. "Because if I had to choose, I would choose you first. Every. Single. Time." He let the last word linger in her ear, hot breath enclosing it, lingering far too long.

She shoved him away and the spell was broken. The push was hard enough to send his elbows rebounding against the wall. He rubbed one in agitation, blood pooling beneath the pale skin.

"You're really sick, you know that?" she hissed at him, rubbing her hands down her pants and glaring.

He smiled, letting her emotions lure him in again, intoxicating him, more addictive and better than any drug. "I know."

He watched her storm down the hallway, wiping furiously at her ear, as he contemplated his options.

He could get her in trouble. He could tell Eric or Max or any of the other trainers. Discredit Four, make a mockery and fraud of her. He had tried to throw her off a cliff already, for Christ's sake.

But something stopped him. The gratification he got from her emotions. That look in her eyes. The satisfaction of being the Candor with her that he never was able to be. Because whatever he was to Beatrice Prior, it was his true self, something he had never let another person see before. He may be sadistic, or psychopathic, or both, but it was the truth. For whatever reason, his shoddy semblance of normalcy and lies came off around her.

Turning around, he strolled down the hallway, fishing an apple he had swiped earlier out of his bag and biting down into it hard. No, he wouldn't tell. He'd let her sordid little love affair continue, he'd let her take the spotlight that should be his.

After all, there was always tomorrow, and he loved to watch her squirm.


End file.
